I wear his name like a scar.
Alessandro Rossi stole everything from me; my freedom, my future, the lie I told my father to keep him alive. He thinks I'm a tool to be used, a bride to be displayed, a Fraga to be broken. He thinks the ring on my finge...
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The hallway outside the conference room was quiet.
I knew he was in there. He had turned the place into his war room, a command post for his single-minded crusade against his own father. I knocked, but no answer. Just the thick, oppressive quiet from the other side of the door. So I turned the handle and stepped inside.
The mixed smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke hit me. The long conference table was littered with empty glasses and ashtrays overflowing with butts of the cigarettes.
My eyes went straight to the desk. Files and grainy photographs were fanned out like a tarot reading predicting only violence.
I didn't need to recognize the locations to know what they were—every possible hole in Italy where Diego could be hiding.
And in the center of it all, pinned to the wood with his favorite stiletto knife, was a photograph of Diego. The blade was driven clean through his father's face.
It was so visceral, so brutally simple, that it made my stomach clench. This was the oath of a son who had decided patricide was his birthright.
I wanted to dig through those files, to see how close he was, to measure the temperature of his hunt. But that would be a violation of a different kind.
So, I did what I could to lighten up the load: I started cleaning up the wreckage, gathering the bottles and bagging the overflowing ashtrays.
On my way downstairs, I met Helena. Her kind eyes flicked to the bag in my hand. "Let me, Mrs. Rossi," she said softly.
"Thank you, Helena. He's just been... occupied."
"He wouldn't let anyone in," she said, taking the bag. "Not even for a moment." It was a quiet confirmation of how deep the isolation went.
Back in the room, I worked. I opened the windows, letting the cool city air fight the staleness. I wiped down the table, stacking the files into something resembling order. I was putting the last folder on the neat pile when the door opened.
Alessandro stood there. He looked like he had been fighting in an alley; suit impeccable, but his eyes were hollowed out and burning. He had been avoiding our bed, our life, for this.
His gaze swept the clean room, the organized desk, the fresh air diluting his private atmosphere of vengeance. Then his eyes landed on me. The anger there was old and deep, tied directly to my sin: keeping a secret. Hiding a photo that proved his father was the traitor that he was.
He crossed the room, his movements fluid and dangerous, and his hands came up to cup my face. His thumbs stroked my jawline, but the touch was electric with tension. It was an interrogation and an apology all at once.
